


Open Arms

by lindafishes8



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-05 15:03:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4184337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindafishes8/pseuds/lindafishes8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes ghosts from agent’s missions come back to haunt them and Illya’s past is full of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my friends who helped beta this story.  
> Many thanks to Open_channel_d for her kind assist with Russian translations.

“I know you’re experiencing a lot of pain from the lashing and are anxious to be finished with this, but...tell me Illya; how did you feel when Mother Fear was crushed to death on that water wheel?”(1)

Illya cringed inwardly at the use of his given name by the U.N.C.L.E. psychiatrist. It was his own fault, really. After all, he’d called the shrink by _her_ first name in an effort to unsettle her and throw her off her game. These post-torture psychiatric sessions were unnecessary in his opinion; a waste of his time, his personal time, as he was officially on medical leave and had been instructed to go home and relax for the next few days.

He took a moment to study Dr. Yvette Rädsla. Blonde hair, about his height and weight, a decade older than himself. She was no real beauty with her hair done up in a bun and her high arched painted eyebrows giving her a severe, if not angry expression.

At least he didn’t have to lie on a couch for this session. His back chafed against the polyester blend of his black turtleneck and was still raw from the strapping to which he’d been subjected. He was in need of his prescription, but it was back in his office. No information had been disclosed by him at École Figliano. That should have been the end of it. But no, now he was being forced to cooperate with this doctor if he wanted to “return to active duty sometime in the next decade” as Mr. Waverly had put it.

He spoke slowly and solemnly, “I was horrified, Dr. Rädsla,” Illya lied. At least was he told her next was partly the truth.

“I’m always saddened by loss of life, even a THRUSH’s life. If she had not been so far away from me I could have saved her.”

He was used to this line of questioning from the psych staff. It became an almost boring ritual after a while. Like a simple mathematical formula, A + B = C. They’d ask a question, he’d tell them what they wanted to hear and the nonsense ended. In truth he was glad Fear was dead. No more children or UNCLE agents would suffer at her hands.

With this last question, this session seemed to be drawing to a close and he certainly didn’t feel horrified about that.

“Just a few more questions, um…Illya Dear. When’s the last time you told your mother that you loved her? Well, sent her flowers? Thanked her for all the little things she’s done; told her how much you care?”

Kuryakin audibly gasped, then cursed himself for showing any type of emotion, but how in the hell did Rädsla know what Mother Fear had asked him word-for-word? He’d not been that precise in his end-of-mission report. Had the torture session been recorded? It must have been; how else would the doctor have known? No one, not even Napoleon was given a verbatim account of that conversation. He stared at her, her face unreadable. Was she toying with him?

At his lack of response the woman looked up from her notes and peered at him over the frames of her horn-rimmed glasses, then rose and stepped behind her desk.

“I believe that’ll be all for today.” She sat down in her chair to check her appointment book and flipped through the pages. “How about tomorrow at ten?” Without waiting for a response she penciled him in.

“You look a bit peaked, Mr. Kuryakin. Perhaps you should lie down and rest up a bit before leaving for the day? Here would be fine, or perhaps your own office?”

He dragged himself to his feet slowly and cautiously, suddenly feeling a bit weak at the knees. “My office,” he mumbled, in obvious agreement that her idea was a prudent one.

Once inside his own private sanctuary within U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, he retrieved his suit jacket from the back of his desk chair and fished out the prescription bottle, popped the last two remaining tablets into his mouth and downed them with a swig of cold coffee leftover from lunch. Normally Illya didn’t care for taking pain pills as he felt vulnerable under their influence. They dulled his mind and slowed his reflexes, making him fair game to the enemy. But his back was throbbing unmercifully now and as long as he remained safely ensconced at UNCLE headquarters, he was in no real danger.

As he sunk down into comforting cushions of his naugahyde couch, his mind drifted back to the beating he had endured at the Figliano School and the words the doctor had spoken to him a few minutes ago. How did she know? Illya decided he’d discuss this with his partner, but later. Now it was time to rest. He gingerly stretched out prone, careful to avoid pulling at the broken skin of his back and was asleep moments later.

He woke after a few hours to see Napoleon Solo standing over him, smiling. “How goes it, partner. You hungry?”

 

In the blink of an eye, Illya found himself seated at a dining table across from Solo. A visibly startled Kuryakin nearly choked as he scanned the nearly deserted and candle-lit Italian restaurant.

“What’s going on? What happened? When did we arrive here?” He was almost shouting.

Napoleon gave him a sideways glance as if Illya had lost his mind. “Twenty minutes ago. Don’t you remember? And keep your voice down.”

“No, I don’t,” Illya was quite alarmed, his voice dropping to a whisper. “We were in my office; I was on my sofa, and now we’re here at Tony's,” he hissed.

“Listen sleepyhead,” Solo rolled his eyes at him, “this is where you wanted to have dinner. You were zonked out in the car the entire ride here. You’re exhausted. It’s been a rather trying few days…”

Napoleon then added, “Perhaps you were sleepwalking.”

“I have never walked in my sleep,” Kuryakin haughtily denied it. Funny, he’d forgotten the car ride entirely until just now.

“Ah, but you have, and on more than one occasion. Anyway, you’re not conscious when you sleepwalk so how would you have any memory of it?”

This made sense but was disconcerting at the same time. Why hadn’t Napoleon told him of prior episodes until now? His head started to throb; he was suddenly weary despite his recent nap.

A waiter appeared at their table with an armload of plates filled with veal picatta, pan-seared steak pizzaiola, pasta, and cheesy garlic bread. It smelled wonderful and both agents were famished. “Please be careful, gentlemen. Plates are very hot.”

The dishes were placed in front of them. Per Napoleon’s request, the nearly empty antipasto dish was removed from the table. Illya didn’t remember ordering or even eating any of the appetizer, but he must have; the taste of garlic and olive oil was fresh on his tongue. The steak dish calling to him was a favorite of his. Solo preferred his steak sans sauce of any kind except Worcestershire and the veal dish in front of Napoleon was his favorite.

Napoleon took a swallow of his Chianti while Illya was relieved to find his own wine glass filled with chilled water; he didn’t need his mind more muddled than it already was. He took a sip, then quickly drained the entire glass.

Solo eyed him. “Thirsty there partner?”

“Not anymore,” Illya grinned and dug into his meal with a passion, like always.

They chatted lightly during the meal. When questioned about specific times and dates of his sleepwalking events, Napoleon was unable to pin them down. Kuryakin wanted to broach the subject of his earlier session with the shrink but decided against it for now. It would keep until tomorrow and in truth, his memories were a little fuzzy right now and he was very tired. Maybe it hadn’t really happened at all. Illya had his water glass filled three more times before his thirst was finally quenched.

When the table was cleared and dessert arrived, they agreed the meal was the best they’d ever shared at Tony's. Illya finished the sweet custard, and his spoon and dessert bowl dissolved into thin air…

 

“...and what did she do then?” His psychiatrist was asking him a question.

Illya whole body twitched as if he where falling in a dream and suddenly jerked awake. He blinked in shocking disbelief. He was back in her softly lit office, seated on the couch this time. Napoleon, their table and the restaurant were gone! He stared in confusion, bordering on all out panic; his entire body trembling as adrenaline surged through his system.

“What were we talking about?” He asked, sotto voce. _Keep it together Kuryakin!_

The doctor glanced up from her notes. “Are you feeling tired, Illya? We can stop at any time if this too much for you.”

“No, I ah… I guess my mind wandered for a moment.” He went over it again as if by doing so would help him to make sense of these strange and unsettling events. He’d been having dinner with Napoleon at Tony's. _I had just eaten my last bite of Panna Cotta topped with raspberries._ It was hard to think straight; his head was throbbing.

“Refresh my memory, will you doctor?” He was struggling to hide how distraught he was. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead, something that almost never occurred when he was under pressure. _It’s only an autonomic response my body has to anxious circumstances; perhaps,_ Illya thought, _that might result in extra sessions on the shrink’s sofa._

“We were discussing the incident with the strap; you were telling me what information Mother Fear was trying to beat out of you.”

Illya had a keen mind with a razor sharp intellect, able to concentrate under the most difficult and stressful of situations. Why was this happening to him? What was the cause? He was resolved to get to the bottom of this phenomenon of lost time, but not now and especially not here. _She’ll have me locked up,_ he thought, _and with good reason._

Illya drew his attention back to Dr. R’s question, finally answering it. “She wanted the location of the U.N.C.L.E. conference.”

“Yes. You just shared that with me a moment ago.” The doctor removed her glasses, studying him carefully. “Are you all right? How do you feel?”

“I’m fine, well, I do have a bit of a headache.” _Bit of a headache? My head’s about to split in two!_ He thought to himself.

“You seem to be upset about something; perhaps a secret you’re not sharing with me?” There was a long pause as Dr. Rädsla made further notes. “I’m here to help you, Illya. It may not always feel like it but I am not the enemy. It seems as though you’re fighting some private demon or-”

 

Illya was sitting on the edge of the couch in his office when a sudden bright flash of light sent sharp daggers of pain directly into his brain.

_“Chyort, tol'ko ne eto opyat'!”_ (Damn, not this again!)

Illya’s hands flew up to cover his already tightly shut eye but fell forwards, his head missing a direct impact with the hard tile floor by mere inches. In the nick of time he was helped back onto the sofa. He was trembling, his heart pounding from the shock of yet another episode. Trying to open his eyes, the glare from the overhead fluorescent lighting fixtures still brought pain, so he quickly squeezed them shut again. Mercifully the lights dimmed.

“Are you all right now, partner?”

Kuryakin sighed in relief. His breathing and heart rate returned to normal as he settled down and tried opening his eyes once more. The pain was slowly receding to a sharp, stabbing sensation over his brow.

“Oh God, Napoleon, I...I keep changing, no, the rooms, the people, keep changing around me.”

“What?” Solo sounded perplexed as he sat himself on one corner of the desk.

“I’m losing it,” Illya said tightly, shaking his head slowly. He gingerly settled himself back into the sofa. Turning to face the CEA with a white-knuckled grip on the cushions; Illya hung onto them as if doing so would stop the phenomenon.

“Something strange has been happening to me, Napoleon. Repeatedly. One minute I’m here, the next I’m at the restaurant with you, then in a therapy session with the doctor, now I’m here again. Maybe I’m having little blackouts or perhaps it is somnambulance as you suggested. Doesn’t one have to actually be asleep before a sleepwalking episode?” He eased up his hold on the cushions.

Napoleon’s expression was one of concern; his forehead furrowed and mouth drawn to a fine line. “I don’t believe you walked or took a taxi to come to headquarters this morning in your sleep, Illya.”

“It’s morning?” Napoleon stared at him, puzzled.

"The workday’s over, it’s after 5.” Kuryakin paled. “I’ve lost almost an entire day.”

“Well,” Illya sighed again, sinking into the sofa a little more, trying desperately to make some sense of it all. “Maybe it’s all the drugs THRUSH has injected into me over the years. Perhaps they’ve had a cumulative effect. I mean, the brain can only be assaulted so many times before it protests, right? The bad headaches I’ve had from truth serums were a warning, I think. Or,” he hesitated, studying the backs of his hands, “there is the remote possibility...I’m having a nervous breakdown.”

He turned towards his partner, searching his eyes as if saying it aloud would make it a fact. Illya became quiet and introspective. This was the worst of any fear he’d ever known, and he’d known many in his thirty-three years.

Was he losing his mind?

He had always been pragmatic about everything that touched his life. There had to be a logical explanation for almost everything. That’s the way he needed his life to be, explainable, logical...orderly. This progression of events, the lost time, holes in his recent memory were unacceptable; more than that, they were intolerable. He was glad his closest friend was with him now. He found it comforting to have someone he could rely upon, someone with whom he could trust with his very life and was at his side through all of this.

“Napoleon?”

“Yes?”

_“Moya zhizn' vsegda v bezopasnosti v tvoikh rukakh.”_ (My life is always safe in your hands.)

Kuryakin watched with narrowed eyes as Solo shifted uncomfortably and finally stood up.

“Napoleon?” Illya asked, after waiting for the expected response.

Solo gave no reply other than “I’m still here,” as he scanned the room nervously.

Disappointed; Illya rubbed his eyes and sighed, feeling even more dejected, if that were possible.

“Please take me home.”

 

(1) _The Children's Day Affair_


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Illya felt a little better. The pain in his head was reduced to a dull throb and his back was not sore at all.

The night before, Napoleon had encouraged him to fill the psychiatrist in on the whole situation and though he’d made it his own personal policy to avoid telling shrinks the whole truth whenever possible; he knew his own judgement was not to be trusted this time.

It was such an odd sensation, popping from one scenario to the next, and utterly disturbing but this was his reality now. He was becoming used to the shock of it, if that were possible. He simply had to talk about it with the doctor. _Napoleon would never steer me wrong._ Kuryakin reasoned with himself.

After a light breakfast, which included several glasses of orange juice, Illya made his way to Dr. Rädsla’s office and knocked on her door. Opening it, the psychiatrist invited him in and told him to take a seat on the couch. He noticed there was a dark haired man seated in a high back leather chair, with a clipboard resting on his lap.

“This is Dr. Max Cooper, Illya. He’s been newly recruited to U.N.C.L.E. and is here to observe and learn the ropes.”

Illya was taken by surprise; it seemed as though they were anticipating his arrival. “Were you expecting me?” He asked.

“No, but it’s not a problem.” Yvette answered. Dr. Cooper had an athletic build and dark hair. He reminded Illya of Napoleon, only the man was a bit older.

“Doctor, this is Mr. Illya Kuryakin. He’s a Section II field agent; one of U.N.C.L.E.’s finest.”

Cooper rose and reached out, offering the agent his hand. “I hope you don’t mind me sitting in on your session this morning.”

Talking with Rädsla was one thing, but bringing in a relative stranger, someone he had absolutely no rapport with was something else again. He was ill at ease already and the session had yet to begin.

Before Kuryakin could respond, Dr. Rädsla interjected, “Of course he doesn’t mind, do you Illya?”

“I suppose it’s acceptable,” he mumbled and shook Dr. Cooper’s hand. _Why did I tell her that?_ He asked himself. Only a moment ago, this was the last thing Kuryakin wanted. He was concerned about what Rädsla would think after he unloaded his problems on her. Another set of ears would coaborrate her diagnosis, and he knew that it would not reflect favorable on himself, but he just couldn’t bring himself to refuse Dr. Cooper sitting in. _She might wonder why I don’t want him here._

“Of course it’s all right. Everybody has to have a first day on the job, wouldn’t you say? Now, what can I do for you today, Illya?” His shrink asked.

“I...I’m having a bit of a problem, Doctor,” he began after swallowing his apprehension.

She listened and took careful notes as Illya explained about the phenomenon that was plaguing him, the memory lapses, the severe headaches, and how he couldn’t seem to quench his thirst. He told her about his sensitivity to light.

“You're having a bad headache now?”

He nodded, surprised at how suddenly the throbbing had magnified.

“I’ll get you a couple of aspirins.” She gave him two pills and a full glass of water which he gratefully accepted, downing the tablets and draining the glass.

“You seem to be handling all of this surprisingly well, Mr. Kuryakin. If this were happening to me, I’m not sure I would react as calmly as you.”

“This is all very disconcerting to me. And let me assure you, I’m not as calm about this as I appear.” He wondered what she might be thinking; worried as to what diagnosis she would pin on him. Would he ever be able to work as a Section II enforcement agent again? He detested weakness in other enforcement agents, and now he saw himself compromised. _Useless and unstable_ , he chastised himself.

“I want you to take the next half hour or so and relax. Just close your eyes and allow the medicine to work. I’m going to be making a few more notes in your chart. If you hear Dr. Cooper and me talking, simply ignore us. Do you understand what I’ve told you?”

“Yes, doctor.” Illya stretched out on the couch and closed his eyes as instructed.

Max rose from his chair to address Rädsla, who stood up as well. “That was another dose you just gave him?”

“No, Max, I seem to have exhausted my supply of the drug and haven’t the ingredients to produce more. I gave him a strong tranquilizer. That should keep him quiet until all the preparations have been made. His last seizure was twelve hours ago. If there’s another, it’ll occur within the next few hours. I’ll watch him carefully, but I am planning on going ahead with Phase 3 tonight,” Rädsla replied with a maleficent, twisted smile.

“You’re so delightfully wicked, Yvette.” Cooper gathered her into his arms and gave her a lingering kiss. “That’s why I enjoy working with you. At what time will you require my services?”

“Oh,” she sighed, “I really won’t be needing you at all. Sorry if I didn’t make that clear. I want to enjoy the last part of my plan by myself, with Yvonne’s killer; just the two of us. My ‘go for’ Zack can move him when I’m ready.”

“Besides, my dear Max,” Yvette concluded with that same twisted grin, “you hate the sight of blood almost as much as I do.”


	3. Chapter 3

Yvette smiled as she realized that all she’d really needed to do was to tell her hapless victim that he was held down with leather restraints and that may have sufficed. If his seizures were indeed under control, she would have omitted the straps altogether, but at this point, she wouldn’t risk it.

Success was within her grasp; this was too important for her to make any mistakes now.

 _He shaved his own head_ , she recalled, chuckling to herself, _but the drug should not be affecting his behavior anymore._ She picked up a black magic marker and begin to draw a large circle of X’s on her patient’s scalp.

This brain dissection would be the crowning glory of her life’s work.

Illya opened his eyes to find himself flat on his back on a cold, hard surface. There was a strong, acrid solvent odor and he felt the oddest sensation on the back of his head.

A large tilted mirror hung above him and he could see the reflection of not only himself, but Dr. Rädsla, dressed in green surgical scrubs, standing behind him.

_Chyort! She’s drawing on me!_

Her hair was tucked up under a green cap and a surgical mask hung loosely around her neck.

There were trays of shiny silver scalpels, hemostats and glass slides within her easy reach and other assorted tools he didn’t recognize but could only guess their purpose.

Illya observed that he was strapped to a metal operating table. _No, an autopsy table_ , he said to himself, as he could make out a deep trough all the way around him with a large drain hole between his feet. The cold steel against his bare backside helped to transmit that coldness to his core and his body was already shivering, in an effort to warm itself. The fact that his only article of clothing was a thin patient gown, didn’t help matters.

Kuryakin’s head was immobilized by a three-pin rigid cranial fixation clamp. He vaguely recalled seeing a similar clamp in a magazine of cranial-vascular surgery he’d leafed through in some doctor’s waiting room at one time. A bright, overhead spotlight was trained on the back of his head, which seemed to be glowing. He saw the marks made by the doctor and realized his hair was gone; he stifled a groan.

Unaware that Illya had regained consciousness, Rädsla busied herself by lifting a power drill and gleefully revving the motor a few times. His eyes widened, pupils dilated in fear as he began to realize the desperate situation he was in.

“Awake at last, my little lab rat?” She noticed he was alert at last. “You should have come-to around twenty minutes ago! I can’t stand around here waiting all night you know,” the doctor said testily, replacing the tool on the instrument tray.

“Sorry to have inconvenienced you, doctor,” he replied without thinking, too late realizing that he really shouldn’t antagonize the person with all the sharp surgical instruments. His eyes focused on that drill. It seemed out of place for some reason.

“You’ll be relieved to learn that the brain itself has no pain receptors, Mr. Kuryakin. I’d like to tell you that you won’t feel the burr holes I must now drill or the saw blade as it slices through your scalp, but,” her lips drawn into a nefarious grin, “I can’t do that.”

Illya stared at her reflection in the mirror. _They must have found a brain tumor_ , he thought, _why else would she be doing a craniotomy?_  

Could this be the same U.N.C.L.E. professional who was intent on helping him not so long ago? Why was she speaking to him in this manner? Why was he on an autopsy table?

_Something very wrong is going on here._

Rädsla continued. “You see, I must remove a flap of bone from your skull. You’ll feel nothing when I sample and then remove one quarter of your brain to gain access to your thalamus.”

“Of course, you’ll be long dead by then.”

He quickly put two and two together and came to an alarming realization. _This isn’t headquarters!_

Kuryakin tested his bonds as unobtrusively as possible; he found himself completely immobilized.

He tried to push aside the feelings of vulnerability and helplessness that threatened to overwhelm him. Negativity would serve no useful purpose here. He needed to remain focused on the one thing he could do; try and reason with a madwoman.

“Don’t do this, Yvette. U.N.C.L.E. will be lenient if you stop now and don’t go any further.” Illya somehow managed to keep the steadily rising panic out of his voice. “You haven’t truly done me any harm. I can be most forgiving.”

The woman continued with her explanations about the imminent procedure, as though she hadn’t heard a single word he’d said.

“The thalamus is a structure in the middle of the brain. It is located between the cerebral cortex and the midbrain. It works to correlate several important processes.” She was quoting passages from her anatomy book.

“Yes doctor, I understand what the thalamus is for. Can’t you just-”

“I am particularly interested in the cingulate gyrus region of your brain,” Rädsla interrupted, “You see, it’s been discovered that people who are classified to be highly suggestible use that region more than those with low suggestibility. I believe the new drug I’ve created has enlarged the rostrum.” She smiled, seemingly pleased with herself. “That’s the pathway between the right and left hemispheres. The rostrum is responsible for the allocation of attention.”

“New drug?”

“Yes! A formula of my own design; I’ve even manufactured it myself. You’ve been an interesting guinea pig, my _dear_ Mr. Kuryakin.” Her accentuation of the term “dear” was positively venomous.

His mind raced. _Drugged. But how? And to what purpose?_

“You mean you’re the cause of my lapses in time and place? And the headaches? What is the purpose of this drug?” Illya had to know. In most of his past associations with mad scientists, and there had been too many to count, he found they tended to brag about their work and divulge information freely, with little or no prodding. She was nauseatingly typical.

“It makes the subject highly suggestible. Now shut up and listen! I brought you here specifically, at great expense, to be my test subject. Don’t you feel honored?”

“Ah, yes doctor, I suppose I do.” Kuryakin was stalling now. _This stinks of THRUSH! Come on Napoleon! If I’ve ever needed a timely rescue, that time is now!_

“Tell me Yvette, from whom did you acquire your funding?”

It was the wrong question to ask.

“Those miserable penny pinchers from THRUSH,” she screeched. “But I wouldn’t call it funding; I’ve had to move my entire operation here from Europe at my personal expense. THRUSH’s miserable stipend barely covers my costs to heat and light this place. I’ve had to make do with second hand equipment.”

To emphasize her point she slammed a fist down on the instrument tray, making a loud bang. Some of the metal pieces fell, clattering on the floor.

At this point it dawned on Illya why the drill was out of place. It was a common carpentry drill, not a true surgical drill at all. _What other corners has she cut?_

“U.N.C.L.E. has unlimited funds at their disposal. I will see to it that you are handsomely rewarded for releasing me. In cash. Unfasten these straps now and I’ll give them a call.” Illya kept his voice as friendly, yet authoritative as possible.

“Yes, yes...first, the burr holes.” She ignored him and was immediately back on track, her attention returning to the business at hand. “Then a saw to cut the bone between them, creating a bone flap.” Dr. Rädsla spoke as if she were reading an instruction manual. In truth, she was. A book lay opened on a stand directly to her left, almost out of Illya’s line of sight.

“I’ll be taking slide samples to study the morphology later. THRUSH will be pleased I’ve developed such a useful drug. Imagine the possibilities! Captured agents from your organization simply being instructed to give up information or turned into assassins at the drop of a hat. You should be proud to be the sole subject of my study. Rest assured, U.N.C.L.E. man, your life has not been a waste; your death a real contribution to science.”

Terror was now almost a living, breathing thing, threatening to sink its ugly teeth into him. He fought it off and swallowed hard against the growing knot of panic in his throat.

Despite the coldness of the metal table he was strapped to, beads of sweat formed on his forehead.

“Dr. Rädsla!” Kuryakin tried in vain to make to make eye contact. _That damnable mirror!_   “As a physician, you took an oath to do no harm. Do you want the blood of one you’ve murdered in cold blood on your conscience?”

She finally heard his words and walked around to the side the table, and smiling sweetly, leaned in close to whisper into his ear. “Oh, Illya dear, I’m not really a doctor.”

Her maniacal chuckle which followed was a little too loud and lasted much too long. She was clearly out of her mind. “And YOU murdered Yvonne; that’s ‘Mother Fear’ to you. Her skull was crushed. Have you ever observed someone’s brain oozing out from a gaping crack in their skull? Her coffin had to remain closed at her funeral. No one attended but Jenk’s half-wit cousin and myself. She deserved better.”

Unable to turn his head he could only watch her out of the corner of his eye and feel her hot breath on his face as she leaned in even closer. His searched her cold grey eyes for the tiniest glimmer of humanity.

He found none.

“Yvonne was my sister, you see. I told her I’d hold a seat on the Board at THRUSH Central within the next few years. She’d have liked that, but she didn’t live long enough to see it happen, thanks to you. What a well-deserved reward this will be for me, after receiving my just deserts, to have destroyed one of U.N.C.L.E.’s finest in the process.”

“So, this is simply an act of revenge?”

Kuryakin always believed, no, hoped his death would be in the line of duty. Going out in a blaze of glory, if truth be told, was how he felt a hero should die, with a bang and not a whimper. He unpretentiously considered himself a hero of sorts, maybe not one with the purest of hearts as he’d done many things in his career he wasn’t proud of, but he had been a champion to those in peril; it was why he’d joined U.N.C.L.E. Now was not a time for humility.

To die in an act of revenge is a waste. Mother Fear was only another ghost from his past.

 _A senseless way to die._ _Where the hell is my partner? I swear Napoleon, if I don’t live through this, you’ll never hear the end of it._

Illya knew he was grasping at proverbial straws; she wasn’t going to stop.

He had to try… “Yvette.” Illya spoke quietly though his heart was pounding. “Listen to me now. This will not bring your sister back.”

Her soft expression turned to steel in an instant. She pulled away suddenly and stood glaring down her nose at him, in obvious disdain.

‘Enough!” she screeched, shaking her clenched fists in the air.

It was then he noticed the wildness in her eyes and recognized that same look of pure insanity he’d seen in Mother Fear’s eyes as she loosened his shirt and tie to begin her torture.

“I’ve told you, Yvette,” Illya’s voice much softer now, “your sister was too far away for me to save. If only I’d been a little closer, if she hadn’t trained her gun on me, I would have rescued her.” Illya did his best to sound sincere. He was pleading for his very life.

“There, there.” The fake psychiatrist and would-be surgeon changed her demeanor again; she patted his cheek gently, her voice soothing as if speaking to a child. “It’ll be fine. You’ve been very useful test subject. This is but the last phase of my experiment. You do understand why I must do this, don’t you, my dear Illya?"

He cringed at the touch of this lunatic. Her hand on his flesh sent a rush of icy needles, which had nothing to do with the chill of the table beneath him, straight to his core and though he tried very hard to control his reaction, he found himself shuddering.

“Be a good little patient now and try to relax. We don’t want your blood pressure up too high now, do we? You might hemorrhage and leave me an awful mess to clean up. I do so hate the sight of blood.”

Illya watched in horror as she pulled up the mask, tied it into place and returned to the end of the table. Yvette took her time donning a pair of gloves, slipping on a pair of eye protectors and picking up the electric drill once more.

He felt his heart pound violently, as if trying to escape his chest. Once again he strained against the straps to free himself; his fear escalating. The buckle on the leather clearly beyond the grasp of his fingertips.

He was utterly powerless to stop this madwoman.

_This is it!. No last minute rescue. You’re too late Napoleon, too late…_

“You know, Illya, I’ve been so looking forward to this moment. Do you suppose there’s a Nobel Prize in my future?”

Illya squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his jaw as he heard the whir of the drill once more and braced himself for the inevitable.

His teeth rattled as she pressed the drill bit into his skull. The sudden, intense white hot agony was too much for him to bear...

 _"Sssssuka!"_ (Bitch!) He screamed out with every bit of air in his lungs.


	4. Chapter 4

It was well after dark when Napoleon Solo and Mark Slate broke into the long abandoned  Open Arms Mental Asylum.  Located on Hart Island, New York, it was founded in the latter half of the nineteenth century. This small island was on the western end of Long Island Sound.

They entered the crumbling building through a skylight on the roof of the main building.

The roof assault was necessary as the men from U.N.C.L.E. found every entrance to be a heavy metal door barred from the inside and stealth was the word of the night.

The agents had already captured two THRUSH guards who were patrolling the grounds. The guards had been handcuffed, gagged and quickly turned over to the ground support team from Section Three.  A helicopter and medical team waited, not far away, on stand-by alert.

The enforcement team was closing in on the homing beacon of a missing agent. The search had been narrowed to this building although the exact location eluded them. The beacon was a new innovation from UNCLE’s security labs. It had been sewn under one of the missing agent’s many scars and only a handful of agents carried the new technology as it was still in its experimental stage.

Armed with flashlights and their Walthers, they proceeded to search the hospital, one floor at a time.

Napoleon was leery to break up the pair in order to search separately though the task would have been accomplished more quickly, there was safety in numbers. Mark and he needed to quickly and quietly check every room of the four story building, working their way down.

The hallways, with walls cracked and peeling, were painted a sickly shade of green. Rusty iron bars covered every window. The place reeked of dust, mildew and decay. Somewhere, the eerie echo of a dripping faucet broke the utter silence of the place.

Pieces of worn-out furniture and equipment, rusty metal bed frames with moth-eaten, stained mattresses, a broken wooden wheelchair with restraining belts laid on its side, even a few chipped porcelain bedpans could be found in the rooms and hallways of the asylum.

Solo shuddered, imagining people being kept in a place such as this. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end when they entered one hallway. It was as if long forgotten souls of patients who had died here were roaming the corridors, trying in vain to find their way out.

They searched room after cob webby empty room, finding nothing, not even footprints on the dusty floors. Large wards where many patients were kept made up most of the second floor.

At one point, a solitary rat crossed their path startling Mark. He jumped a half foot in the air. Napoleon would have chuckled at the absurdity of an enforcement agent of Mark’s caliber reacting that way if he himself didn’t find this place leaving his nerves on edge as well.

When they reached the rear of the main floor, the old hospital took on a different atmosphere. It was sparkling clean. The floors practically gleamed, there was a coat of fresh paint, light blue this time, and even the air was cleaner; it certainly smelled better.

Suddenly, they heard the squeaking pulleys and grinding, unoiled gears of an ancient elevator starting up from below.

Both edged carefully down the deserted corridor towards the source of the noise. Positioning themselves on either side of the doors as to not be seen, Mark and Napoleon waited to see at what floor the car would stop.

It ground to a halt on the main floor and once the lift doors opened, the single occupant, an unarmed man in a rumpled but clean T-shirt and denim overalls opened the gate and stepped out. He was in his mid-twenties, tall and thin, with reddish brown curly hair.

Both agents trained their weapons on the startled man. “And who might you be?” Solo asked quietly.

“Pl...Please don’t shoot me,” the man stammered, “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

“Let us be the judge of that.” The CEA gave the man the once-over. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“Please put that gun away, mister. I’m Zachary Jenks. You can call me Zack, everybody does.  I was just gonna go outside for a smoke. Doc Rädsla, she don’t allow no smokin’ in the building. She says I gotta listen and do everythin’ she says or I’m out on my keister. Are you gonna put them guns away or not? I don’t like guns much.”

Mark frisked the man and found no weapons.

“Hey, stop that, mister. Yer tickling me,” Zack giggled.

Napoleon frowned at him. He knew this man’s last name from somewhere, but it eluded him for now. “What is Dr. Rädsla doing here? We need to find her.”

“Oh she’s sperimentin’. Maybe she’s done now. You guys gonna talk with her? She’s ain’t gonna like that. Nope, she’s ain’t gonna like that one bit. She likes her privacy.”

“Who else is here, Zack? Besides you and the doctor?”

“Oh. I know this! There’s them two dirty bird guards. They’s outside now, patrollin’. Oops! I’m not ‘sposed to call them ‘dirty birds.’ You won’t tell the doc, will ya? I’ll get into a mess o’trouble agin.”

“Dirty birds?” Mark asked, barely suppressing a chuckle, “Do you mean THRUSH?”

“Yup. That’s it. They’s got guns too, jus like you two, only they’s got rifles. I don’t like them rifles. What’s you plannin’ on doin’?”

“Is there anyone else here, Zack?” Mark continued.

“Yup. That Max fella. I don’t like him much neither. He hits me when I work too slow.”

“Anyone else?”

“Let me think. There’s doc and Max, them two guards and Oh yeah! That blond guy. Mister Curry-A-Kin.”

Zackary Jenks seemed pleased that he remembered all that had been asked of him. He smiled broadly at Mark and Napoleon; a wide, nearly toothless grin.

“Where are Dr. Rädsla, Max Cooper and Mr. Kuryakin?” Napoleon asked.

“Basement.”

“Let’s all go down there, shall we?”

Solo eyed the elevator. He didn’t want to announce their arrival with that loud, squeaking antique.

“Is there a stairway down to the basement, Zack?”

‘Sure! Come on, I’ll show ya.” He hesitated and threw the agents a sideways glance.

“Hey now! Wait just a gosh-darn minute. Youse didn’t tell me your names.”

Solo was good at reading people and felt he could trust this man to tell him the truth.  He seemed earnest when he answered their questions even if he wasn’t playing with a full deck.

“You can call me Mr. Solo and my friend’s name is Mr. Slate. Can you remember our names  Mr. Jenks?”

Napoleon suddenly remembered where he’d heard the ‘Jenks’ name before. Captain Dennis Jenks ran a THRUSH school for boys along with Mother Fear in Switzerland. Illya and he had shut down the school last year. Captain Jenks was in prison and Mother Fear had been killed.

“Mister, you jus made me a happy man. Nobody’s ever called me ‘mister’ before.”

“Well now, I’m glad I made you happy. Are you a relative of Dennis Jenks? A brother, perhaps?” Napoleon asked.

Slate nodded at Solo knowingly. He had read the report on The Children’s Day Affair and was aware of the THRUSH school as well.

“No sir! I ain’t got no brother. I am his cousin sure ‘nuff though. I don’t never see him much. He lives in a place called Yer-up now. Doc Rädsla told me that.”

Before they reached the basement, Zack was instructed to not make any noise and to only speak at a whisper.

The basement was well lit and the three men made their way down a long corridor with Napoleon in the lead.

Zack stopped and pointed into one of the rooms. He remembered to whisper.

“This here’s where Mister Max pretended with that yeller haired man. See them tables and candles? They was play actin’ they was in one of them fancy I-talian eateries. It was jus’ take-out. I got to be the waiter. He paused and stood a little taller, reciting his lines. ”Please be careful, gentlemen. Plates are very hot.”

Zack paused in the doorway of another, much smaller room. Solo peered in.

“What was going on in here?” Napoleon stepped inside. On a whim, he flipped on the light switch. Bright fluorescent ceiling fixtures illuminated the dreary room; he observed only a battered leather couch, a desk and an old desk chair.

“Um, that’s s’posed to be his office. Nuttin in there but old furniture I got at a second hand store. And that there room ‘cross the way, his bedroom.”

“Whose bedroom?” Mark asked just to clarify. “And what do you mean they were ‘play acting?’ ”

“That feller with the yeller hair,” Zach grinned. “Ceptin, he ain’t got no yeller hair no more. The next room’s the Doc’s office. I’s not posed to go in there.”  Zack was pointing into yet another room.

Solo pressed for the answer to the second part of Mark’s question. “What do you mean they were play acting?”

“Play actin? You know, pretendin’ that them rooms was real places. The pretended they was in a fancy place to eat when it wasn’t and that bedroom was Curry-a-kin’s own bedroom back where he lives for real.”

“And this office was supposed to be his real office?”

“Yup! Back where he works at his uncle’s place.”

“Check out the Doctors office, Mark,” Solo ordered. “We’ll keep going. Photograph anything you think might be related to the experiment.”

“No problem, guv.”

As soon as Agent Slate entered the office, his eyes were riveted to a blackboard.

 

**The Rädsla Experiment-**

Subject: Illya Kuryakin known U.N.C.L.E. agent, Section Two, Number Two.

 **Phase One** \- introduction of the drug, evaluate its safety, determine a safe dosage range, and identify side effects.   [excessive thirst, headaches, photophobia, seizures with periods of acute, recent memory loss.]

(Phase One COMPLETE)      

 **Phase Two** \- determine it’s effectiveness, titrating the dosage for maximum results.                                         [ ~~50 mg every 12 hrs~~  25 mg every eight hours.]   [subject highly suggestible.]

(Phase Two COMPLETE)

 **Phase Three** \- microscopic examination through brain dissection.  

(operation pending)

“May I be of some assistance?”  A man’s sleepy voice came from behind Mark. He spun around to see a man in his fifties, dark hair, about Solo’s height and build, standing in the doorway clad in dark blue pajamas and slippers.

Angry at himself for being caught unawares, Mark barked out “Where’s Illya Kuryakin?”

With Mark’s gun in his face, Max Cooper quickly divulged Kuryakin’s location and what was happening to him at this very moment. Cooper was subsequently darted and left lying on the office floor.

Mark came flying down the hallway bellowing to Solo before catching up to him.

“We’ve got to hurry! Rädsla’s going to take a brain sample from Illya. They’re in the operating room now.”

“Son of a ...!” Solo hissed. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

He grabbed Zack with both hands. “Where’s the operating room?”

Zack tried to pull away, but Solo would have none of it.

“She made me scrub it clean this mornin’.”

“Where Zack? WHERE?” Napoleon demanded.

He pointed to the right. “It’s down the end of that there hallway.” Mark nodded.

Napoleon pulled Zack along before he was even finished talking. They turned the corner and started running towards the double swinging doors at the end.

A brain sample? _What the hell has Illya gotten himself into this time?_ flashed through Napoleon’s mind as he released Zack and barreled down the corridor without him, at a pace that would have set a new speed record back at survival school.

Mark followed the two men ahead of him, giving them cover from any persons or guards who may heard the commotion and whom Zack may have forgotten to mention.

They heard a man’s scream.

The CEA was instantly on high alert, recognizing that that rather colorful Russian epithet had come from his partner.

Solo threw open the doors and ran into the makeshift operating room, noted Illya strapped down on a table, and saw the figure in green surgical garb, spattered in blood, pressing a drill into Kuryakin’s skull.

That was all Napoleon needed to see. He fired a bullet into Rädsla’s brain with a single shot, right between her eyes.

**  
  
**


	5. Chapter 5

“Illya, you do realize The Children’s Day Affair happened over a year ago?” Napoleon asked.

“I do now.”  Illya’s voice was pensive.  “And you’re telling me the whole thing took place in an abandoned insane asylum?”

He was in his least-favorite place at headquarters, a bed in Medical. But in this particular instance, he found himself not minding it so much, even with an intravenous drip line stuck in his arm, infusing him with glucose water.  Napoleon and Mark were both in the room with him.

Solo shook his head and shrugged. “What can I say? Yvette may have not been a real doctor, but she was an excellent chemist. We have to assume she took the formula for the drug with her to her grave. Our chemists have been trying to extract some of it from a sample of your blood and they haven’t been able to thus far. It’ll make a great truth serum for U.N.C.L.E. if they can manage it. Why we were unable to find a single dose is a mystery.”

Napoleon sighed heavily, took a deep breath and continued.  “Waverly’s angry with me for killing her, to say the least. I’ve been assigned to the file room for the next two weeks.”

“Well, I, for one, am rather glad you stopped her when you did,” Illya said gratefully.  “Another few millimeters and that drill may have erased my entire Cambridge education or U.N.C.L.E. training...or even my personality.”

Napoleon opened his mouth for a sarcastic remark, but thought the better of it after first sensing and then seeing the sudden icy blue glare cast solely in his direction.

“There are no needle marks on my body, my food must have been laced with the drug...Oh, no,” Illya groaned, reaching up and lightly slapping his own forehead, remembering.

“What?”

“The doctor, I mean ‘Miss’ Rädlsa, handed me the tablets; I simply...took them.”

An uncomfortable silence filled the room as all three pondered how powerful a hold she had over Kuryakin.

“Well, I did a little digging, tovarisch.  ‘Rädsla’ is the Swedish word for ‘Fear.’ Yvonne and Yvette were of Swedish descent. As it turns out, they were twins, not identical, of course. With her sister dead, Yvette had no reason to stay in Europe.  She moved her lab to New York to carry out her revenge by making you her test subject. She brought her lover, a mousy little man by the name of Maximillian Cooper and Captain Jenk’s cousin Zachary, with her.”

“So, Cooper was role-playing, impersonating you? And I believed him.” Kuryakin said.

“Listen, Guv,” Mark spoke up. “All that wench needed to do was tell you Cooper was Napoleon for you to accept it. She told you your back hurt and you experienced pain. She told you that you went to Tony's for dinner or your office at U.N.C.L.E. and you believed you were at Tony's or your office. In reality, you never left that basement.”

“A prison cell without bars,” Illya muttered, eyes cast downwards, offhandedly picking at his blanket. ”How could I have been so weak?”

Napoleon, recognized the anguished tone in his partner’s voice, quickly added, “Never weak, partner mine, just under the influence of a very powerful drug. You’re the most un-weak person I know.” Illya was amused at Solo’s choice of adjective even as he was touched by the compliment.

“Un-weak?” A smile played at the corners of Kuryakin’s mouth.

“Well, you know what I mean.”

"And I shaved my own head?”

Solo chuckled. “It appears that way; from what Zack’s told us and from what we’ve gleaned from Rädsla’s notes. By the way, we found taped dialogue from École Figliano in her desk. The conversation you asked me about, between you and Mother Fear? She must have taken it from the school before U.N.C.L.E.’s Geneva team did their clean-up.”

Illya rubbed the top of his head again, careful as to not disturb the bandages that encircled it.  It felt very strange not having any hair, and more than a little chilly.

“It’ll grow back, Old Man,” Mark offered cheekily. He tossed the patient a navy blue toque, not unlike the black one Illya already owned.  The bald enforcement agent gratefully accepted it and gingerly placed it on his head.

“You could always wear a wig,” Napoleon mused. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “to cover that hole in your head.” The CEA couldn’t help himself this time and Mark joined him in laughter.

Although the rest of Illya's face was expressionless, his eyes twinkled with amusement. He saw this as the first of many in a long string of jokes at his expense, but he would allow it. He had survived. Napoleon saved him before the drill had reached his brain cavity.

It had been extremely close this time.

Illya was scheduled to meet with an U.N.C.L.E.’s psychiatrist later in the week as an outpatient to discuss this whole affair. He’d already decided to give his full cooperation, and as much as he dreaded head shrinkers, he needed to put this event behind him and move on.

Mark said his good-nights and took his leave while Napoleon lingered a while longer.

“Doc says you haven’t had any more seizures. That’s a good sign.” His tone was serious.

“Yes,” Illya nodded. “That’s why I was having periods of lost time. As the doctors explained, Rädsla’s drug produced specific alterations in brain chemistry causing abnormal electrical pathways to form. The effects are quite temporary, of course. It’s all quite fascinating. You see, the-”

“Well, I’d better let you get some rest,” Solo quickly interrupted before Kuryakin could go into one of his long-winded tutorials. He dimmed the lights and turned to leave. “They tell me you’ll be released tomorrow.”

Illya nodded again.

“See you in the morning, then,’’ Solo was about to make his way to the door.

“Napoleon?” Kuryakin sat up.

“Hmmm?”

Illya studied his partner’s face in the muted light and was worried. _What if I’m still under the effects of the suggestibility drug and how will I be able to trust that anything is real ever again? How can I be sure he’s really my partner?_

He contemplated all of this for another moment, searching for the right words, but still not knowing exactly what he needed to say.

But he did know.

He’d said it back at the asylum to the man he wrongly assumed was his closest friend. He’d said it and waited for the familiar response he’d expected, but never came.

Illya repeated those words softly now and then held his breath, waiting.

 _“Moya zhizn' vsegda v bezopasnosti v tvoikh rukakh.”_  (My life is always safe in your hands.)

The American smiled at hearing the Russian phrase they’d often used after a particularly dangerous mission. He hesitated, sensing the inner turmoil in Illya’s eyes, the uncertainty in his voice. This was his proud and stoic tovarisch asking for reassurances after a harrowing experience.

Solo stepped closer and reaching out, laid his hand firmly on his partner’s shoulder before he replied, _“Tak zhe kak moya v tvoikh.”_  (As mine is safe in yours.)

Relieved beyond words, Illya simply nodded. With a small smile and sigh he covered Napoleon’s hand with his own.

As the door closed behind his friend, Illya sighed and eased his head down into his pillow. Pulling the warm covers over his shoulders, he turned on his side, finding U.N.C.L.E.’s renowned uncomfortable Medical bed far superior to an autopsy table.

The Rädsla/Fear sisters were dead, the suggestibility drug was out of the hands of THRUSH and…Napoleon was Napoleon. For this moment in time, however brief, he was safe.

Illya closed his eyes and sleep took him a short time later.

His waking nightmare was over.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My ‘Open Arms’ Insane Asylum was purely fictitious. There was a real facility named “Hart Island Lunatic Asylum.” Located on Hart Island (also called Hart’s Island) in the easternmost part of the borough of the Bronx, it was built in 1885 exclusively for women. Back in those days, women’s institutions were referred to as ‘lunatic asylums’ while such places for men were called ‘insane asylums.’ The island holds some fascinating, albeit disturbing, history. It was also the home of a Union Civil War prison camp, a tuberculosis sanatorium, a prison workhouse for juvenile delinquents, a missile base, a quarantine zone during the yellow fever epidemic, and the largest tax-funded cemetery in the world. More information may be found online.


End file.
